Changeling
by Madyamisam
Summary: For Sherlock, ritual murders were boring. They were crude and simplistic in their methods and the culprits furthered their idiocy by the demented chanting of a dead language that, obviously, nobody cared about. The latest string of dead bodies in chalk circles littering the narrow streets of London seemed no different until a mysterious letter arrives at 221B. For Duochanfan
1. Prologue

Title: Changeling

Chapter: Prologue

Author: Madyamisam

Prologue

There was a tense quiet in the large dusty room as light filtered through one single, grime covered window. It was empty, safe for a man in his mid-forties and a small cloaked figure drawing a large intricately designed circle with chalk.

The man whistled in appreciation at the detail that was put in, with seemingly nonsensical words fashioned around perfectly illustrated geometric shapes. Lines overlapped each other in a perfect symmetry with runic symbols marked in specific locations.

A sound alerted him of others approaching. Glancing at the watch on his wrist, he went to open the only door to the room allowing for the guests to file in. One by one, his men, nine in total, shuffled in with four of them carrying a large sack, a bucket of water and a large aluminium tub. The remaining five each held an assault rifle each and stationed themselves around the circle.

"So this is it eh? Shall we get this party started?" the man announced a tongue darting out and wetting his dry lips and pushing up his designer glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

His gaze landed on the illustrator who just finished the final etchings on the dusty concrete floor. With a nod the man motioned for the employees who were carrying the sack and the tub to come forward. They placed the tub at the centre of the diagram then, carefully, they tipped out the contents of the sack. Various soils and powders poured out which was then followed with the large bucket water then mixed together in a cement sludge.

There was a thrum and the man widened his watery blue eyes as the illustrator placed two hands on the outer edges of the circle. The air was charged as sparks started to appear and a blue glow from the chalk flickered to life. The contents in the tub started to twitch then morph into shape. By the time it had finished the pile of clay looked like a wonderful Venetian sculpture. There was a collective gasp and panicked whispers amongst the men as they looked upon the cloaked figure with trepidation. Their hands twitching at the weapons they possessed. Their boss however smiled.

"Impressive, but I believe this is pretty trivial to you isn't it?" Met with silence, the man continued. "I've read the 'secret 'research and I'm fully aware that you know a lot more about this alchemy of yours than you let on. It almost seems impossible to think that people still practise this let alone manage take it to this kind of level of technological sophistication. Imagine if the whole world knew?" The figure remained unfazed and unresponsive to the veiled threat so crooked business man sneered playing his final trump card. "I also know about the accident." A flinch and he knew he had been successful with his persuasion. "I've also managed to procure what was left of that 'accident'. Poor fellow has had a rather ill-fated meeting with a land mine."

"Show him to me." The figure's whisper came out in an aggravated hiss. The motioned again and the two men outside the entrance came in with body. It was a bloody gored up mess. A man, or what was left of him after a bomb had obviously detonated. Shrapnel and possibly a bullet wound. There was mangled flesh and bone, slightly charred at the ends of a stump and distinct space of where the man's leg used to be. He wouldn't have much longer to live.

"I know what he is and what naughty things your people had planned to do to him before this unfortunate incident happened." the man continued to gloat implicating the injuries on the man. The cloaked figure tensed at his slimy words rolled out of his tongue. "I detect sentiment in you though. Seems redundant considering, but if you actually want to save him then you'll have to show me what you can do. Equivalent Exchange right?" the figure hissed at the term being used by the disgusting man.

"Move the tub out of the way and bring him onto the circle then" rasped the cloaked figure.

"There we go. It's nice to have cooperation don't you think?" the man smirked just as he motioned for his employees to follow the instruction. "I do believe you will be a very nice asset for me one day though it still baffles me of your love for this pitiful creature." There was a brief pause as the cloaked figure stared at the dying man.

"I assume you were an only child, Magnusson, a spoilt brat with a hoarding habit." The cloaked figure spoke up, almost spitting the name of the atrocious man but any insult that was thrown his way simply rolled off like water on oil. There was a groan from the injured man, his breathing shallow and his chest rose and fell in quick succession implicating the signs of shock. He'll be dead in minutes.

Slowly the cloaked figure knelt down placing hands on the floor once more upon the edges of the circle. Once again there was a rumble as the energy built up and solidified but then there was something different. A larger circle seemed to emerge from the stone floor like iron filings to a magnet that encompassed practically the whole floor. The symbols were different, grander and more complex than the chalk one that had been drawn earlier. Another spark of electricity and the blue glow returned and a wall rose up sealing any and all exits of the room trapping everyone inside. Magnusson almost shrieked at suddenly being thrust into complete darkness.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Like you said, Charles." said the cloaked figure as the air charged up one last time, the room glowed with light and the hood of the cloaked flew off onto small shoulders so that the men could now see tresses of blonde hair and intelligent bright golden eyes glaring at them with a deadly intensity. The normal blue glow had melted into deep blood red. The new circle hummed and fizzled with power and a vacuous black swallowed up the floor along with the hysterical screams of Magnusson and his men who were disintegrating into nothing. "Sentiment is redundant, but it's all I've got."


	2. An Odd Letter

Chapter 1: An Odd Letter

There wasn't much to the body at the crime scene. Like all the others, it was just a quivering mass of charred remains that might have once been someone's intestines. The grisly sight turned the faces of many of the officers varying shades of green but to Sherlock, it was a mild curiosity to add in a footnote in his ongoing research on human stupidity.

A single deep laceration around the neck meant the victim was strangled then the body was hacked up in post mortem. The large slashes, obviously made by a machete from the black market, carved its way into the fleshy cavity as well as the floor around it. The face had been completely obliterated and smashed in implicating the culprit to be bordering on possibly some sort of drug-induced hysteria. The final act was to douse the mutilated corpse with gasoline then set it on fire.

Sherlock scoffed at the headlines of it being the second coming of Jack the Ripper. If only it had even a fraction of the finesse. In actuality, it was an open and shut case and he had been proven right once again when he heard the police dragging off the members of the occult group involved. All in all, Sherlock thought it was boring.

The locations where the rituals took place however, were a whole different story. Lestrade and the forensics team had chalked up the strange circles littering across London's streets to be the work of the same occult group that they had just arrested but Sherlock knew better. It was coming up to three months since the circles started appearing, most of them in obscure locations where no one would really bat an eyelid to and within a couple of days they would disappear again. Sherlock had ensured that he kept records of them whenever they appeared using his homeless network. After a background check of the members, one thing was obvious about the ritual murders. The circles were not made by any normal means. There was a methodical process involved which required some kind of specialised equipment that no average Joe would acquire, certainly not by a group of overly superstitious morons. The cult who called themselves Ascalon's Children, had simply found a couple of the markings and incorporated them into their routine of torturing and sacrificing animals before quickly graduating to human victims two weeks ago.

Sherlock slid a latex gloved hand against the near straight grains of the stone work on the floor, placing the data in another area of his mind palace along with all the others he had seen the past couple of months.

Some circles were burned into the surfaces, others were like cracks made by ice on walls. This particular one protruded up wards and looked like it had been designed into the architecture but Sherlock suspected it unlikely, considering it was a cheap council house and the fact that it wasn't there a few days before when the police went knocking on doors to find witnesses. It could've been added later on top from a mould but Sherlock doubted it. He had analysed a similar protruding circle that was found on a tree in Regent's Park. Like this one, the tree circle protruded outwards as if it had been a part of the trunk. Analysis of the bark from both the circle and the rest of the trunk were exactly the same. Then, when he returned the next day, it was gone. Had he not taken a picture with his phone or scratched a mark on the tree with a pen knife when he went to collect a sample it, it appeared like the circle never even existed. Looking at the current markings, Sherlock knew they were the same. However, what was most confounding was not what was there but what wasn't. There was an internal design within the circle itself that looked scrambled. The word 'incomplete' came to mind.

There was also a slight aroma of sulphur and possibly nitric dioxide coming from the uniform looking grooves within the protrusions. He blinked as he scratched at the side and then pulled out the corner of plastic packaging that was imbedded into the cement itself. Along with the plastic came tiny black specks, the size of a grain of sand.

"What you doing over there? I hope you're not stealing evidence again." Lestrade's gravelly voice loomed in the distance near the door.

"Perish the thought." Sherlock replied slipping his findings into a couple of evidence bags he had 'borrowed' earlier and made to surreptitiously slip them into his pocket when he was faced latex covered hand.

"Give it" Lestrade's demanded. It seemed the detective inspector had finally wised up to Sherlock's little habits and was particularly dogmatic this time in ensuring that he didn't ferret anything away anything from the scene. Donovan stood behind him with her arms crossed defiantly showing her approval that Lestrade was putting his foot down. She had stopped calling Sherlock 'freak' since his return from death, possibly from feeling guilty of her role in investigating him but it wasn't likely that the two of them would ever be on friendly terms with each other.

"They are completely irrelevant samples."

"Doesn't matter, you're not taking souvenirs from a crime scene, Sherlock. Despite everything that's happened before and what you've done since, the higher ups are watching everyone to follow protocol even more these days. My badge is on the line as well as your access to future cases." The curly haired consulting detective scowled that the one little bit of interesting piece of data he has acquired in all this tedious mess was going to be snatched away from him, but Lestrade was having none of it. He could see Donovan in the background glaring at him as well.

Sherlock never cared much for the Yard taking the credit for practically every case he ever helped them solve, but it seemed that they were getting arrogant with all the praise from the press again. Typical, but it wouldn't do to allow the only policeman he tolerated to lose his job. So, grudgingly, the consulting detective relented and passed the bag over to the grey haired man.

"We've found the leader of the group like you said on the roof where the pigeon roost is." Lestrade added hoping to placate the detective a little with the satisfaction of successfully cracking the case. "The man was a blubbering mess. Found the murder weapons as well. The rope was stuffed in the vent and the machete and gasoline canister is under the second to last floorboard in left hand corner of the bedroom."

"Technically, the only murder weapon was the rope, the rest was just used for their recreational purpose in corpse mutilation."

"Oh, like the random body parts you still store in the fridge?" Sally interjected. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"For the last time, those are experiments. There is a method to them and a chance to acquire useful data for the future. This? This was completely pointless in every which way you make of it and it's boring." There was an awkward silence from the two officers but Lestrade, wanting to remain professional staved his urge to berate Sherlock and put up a hand to let Sally know that he would handle it.

"It's not like you to hang around after the culprit's been found. Was there something we missed?"

"No there's nothing else. Just…" Sherlock trailed off. Something was off and it he seemed more conscious of blurting everything out. Lestrade cocked his head as if hoping he could hear the man's thoughts. "It's irrelevant." The detective said. Taking one last look at the circle, Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat and shoved his hands into his pocket. There wasn't much more to get out of it apart from the small bits he had extracted and Lestrade wasn't going to relinquish it. The only other option was to leave had Donovan went to block his escape.

"There's still some paperwork we need to get through, so you might need to come to the station with us."

"Let him be Donovan. I'll ask him about it tomorrow " the DI interjected letting Sherlock pass.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the detective inspector. "Weren't you the one spouting about police protocol earlier, Gary?"

"It's Greg and yes Sherlock, I did say that earlier but you look like shit. It can wait until tomorrow. Just go home ok?" the grey haired inspector looked almost frightened. His face had all the indication that he was one step away from yanking Sherlock by the ear, throw him in a police car and drive him back to his flat or perhaps even the hospital. Sherlock shot him a withering glare as he immediately noted the flashes of tell-tale signs of exhaustion in the senior police officer.

The evidence of several nights without sleep showed in large grey bags under his eyes. The tensing of his shoulders suggested he was recalling an argument he had recently. Someone close, a new partner since Lestrade and his wife had separated months ago. Further look on the wrist there was a clip to the skin from the awkward clasp of a brand new and expensive watch that had been given to the detective inspector recently._Special occasion_, _date gone wrong _said the words that floated about in his mind's eye. Sherlock would've spoke up aloud about this observation on the man earlier if he hadn't been distracted by the new strange phenomenon that was occurring all across London. Instead, he pursed his lips strode out of the house and out onto the street.

"There you are." He heard a call of a familiar voice that brought him out of his reverie as John had jogged up the street just hanging behind the yellow tape. "Why didn't you call me? I was in the area and I told you I didn't have any work today."

"You were going to a scan with Mary."

"That was this morning,"

"Then you were planning on a lunch date at your favourite restaurant since that's your best shirt and you made the extra effort to add cologne, but you were interrupted by Mycroft's meddling." John would've laughed in amazement of the deduction had it not been for the sight of the state of his friend. Sherlock had always been thin but after weeks not seeing him, he looked skeletal, dark shadow of stubble was evident on his face and his normally luscious curls had become frizzy and brittle. It had come to a point where Mrs Hudson and Mycroft ended up calling him to go check on the consulting detective with the latter literally dropping by in his black car to pick John up from the clinic where Mary was having a scan. Fortunately, he had also offered to escort Mary back home afterwards.

"Well it doesn't really matter anyway, since the case is closed. Murderer was the neighbour with an obsession with the occult and part of an 'elite' group." Sherlock quickly fired out the debriefing. "It was hardly worth getting up for really." John raised an eyebrow at the retreating man before turning his gaze towards the tired inspector standing outside.

"You look terrible."

"Feel it too. I haven't seen you in a while. How's married life?"

"It's alright, quiet…" John replied. It was the truth in a way. He enjoyed Mary's company particularly the sex or at least as much as he was allowed to and there was the growing trepidation and excitement of the new life growing inside of her. It'll be another few weeks before the bump started to show in earnest but he often couldn't help diving to stroke the still relatively flat stomach of his new wife. All in it all it was alright. There are days where he felt restless though, times where everything felt monotone and a little too oppressively quiet that he started wandering the streets late at night a month ago. It worked well enough for a week, then he had stormed his way towards an empty warehouse and ended up spraining a drug addict's arm while searching for a young lad called Issac Whitney. So when Mycroft turned up at the clinic, he leapt at the chance to go check on his best friend that he hadn't seen since his wedding. Mary had smiled encouragingly, assuring him as she stayed in the car that drove her home.

What he thought would be a refreshing change withered in slight disappointment and awkwardness. '_Drifting apart' _came the strange haunting words. Sherlock had promised on his wedding that he would be there for him and his family but John had also made his own silent promise that he would continue with his role as part of the dynamic. John was still technically Sherlock's blogger but he found himself staring blankly at the screen a lot the past few weeks. It was one thing Sherlock telling him his exploits and him actually experiencing them with him.

"Well, it's a good thing you're here because my team and Sherlock are on the verge of killing each other if he hangs around us any longer." Lestrade's words interrupted his rather depressing thoughts. "He's trying to figure something out though, but he'll never share it with me even if after working with him all these years. Maybe you'll have better luck." The grey haired inspector may not have the same level of deductive reasoning that Sherlock had but he was an astute man and easily figured that there was something not quite right with the consulting detective lately. Sherlock was his own little mystery and although Lestrade had a lot of faith in Sherlock, there was just not that sense of camaraderie between them.

"Sure. I'm can give it a try" John said. Truth be told, John wasn't really that confident. Seeing Sherlock like that was a shock to him. A stark contrast to the pristine confident man he saw when they met for the first time. For the most part, Sherlock was still himself, still solving crimes but sharper and quicker than before. From the few visits to an empty apartment, John noted that Sherlock seemed to fly through the cases presented to him, easy or difficult he went through them like a machine to the point that the police were swamped with processing the paperwork of complete cases.

A few days ago, the Yard was presented with an award with the huge number of convictions that they've made as a result of Sherlock's help. Media attention also started to increase their focus on the hat detective again and John sometimes found it amusing when he caught his friend on the TV in the surgery flee through the alleyways away from the rapid clicks and flashes of light.

Sherlock seemed to keep himself busy with anything nowadays even without the threat of Moriaty anymore, working on everything from finding a lost kitten to the latest serial killing. Normally, Sherlock was quite selective of his cases, not bothering to even change out of his pyjamas and being completely insufferable with boredom when nothing interesting came along. John expected to be on the receiving end of a temper tantrum with a deluge of texts but so far nothing had happened. Everything was actually going very well for Sherlock or so it seemed. John had initially been pleasantly surprised by the growing pile of unread thank you letters from clients when he came back from his honeymoon but now he was worried.

Perhaps there was a string of strange occurrences of interesting cases but John would've heard about it from Sherlock and he would be dragged into one at some point but that hadn't been the case. In fact, Sherlock hadn't bothered to call John for two months.

"Did you two have some kind of falling out or something?" Lestrade asked bringing the army doctor out of his reflections.

"What? No. No, of course not." John looked at the tail of the Belstaff disappearing from his line of sight. "We're just…" _Drifting apart._ John felt a lump in his throat at the horrid thought and the words that Mrs Hudson mentioned only a few months ago. "We're just busy."

"Well ok. You'll tell me all about it over a pint some time alright?"

"Sure Lestrade, thanks." John hurried after the detective easily catching up despite the long legs storming at an almost run. Collar up, hands in the pocket Sherlock looked almost wild, eyes darting everywhere across the street. Distracted yet focused at the same time. John was at a loss.

"Where are you heading?"

"St. Bart's." Sherlock replied still looking around everywhere but walking straight past the line of taxis that would take them towards the destination. Surely he wasn't planning to walk all the way there? Now John was really worried. Sherlock never wasted time when it came to moving from place to place yet Sherlock seemed to walking around aimlessly. "Problem?"

"Have you eaten?"

"Not important." John sighed.

"When?"

"What day is it?" John almost stumbled and Sherlock recognised the darkened expression, the grimace and the tilt of his head in disapproval. "What?"

"Right that's it," John said grabbing Sherlock by the arm and dragging towards the direction of Baker Street which was only a block away. Once upon a time John would've been bombarded with texts on his phone from Sherlock to the extent that once he had been called him to make the aggravating detective a cup of tea for him while John was away in Manchester. John had half expected Sherlock to call for his assistance as soon as he had sent a text that he had returned from his honeymoon but that never happened and even after the few conversations he had about any cases the sleuth was on while he was away had tapered off. Sherlock seemed to have cut himself off from him completely.

"John? Wh-"

"Baker Street. You look like you've been in the same clothes for the past week."

"John, I'm busy."

"With what? You just said you just finished the latest case. You can spare a moment in your flat can't you." Sherlock made a face as he allowed himself being dragged back to the front door of his apartment and met with a shocked and tearful Mrs Hudson.

"Oh Sherlock," she whimpered in distress. "I thought you'd gone off and died again. I haven't seen you for days."

"Oh stop being so melodramatic Mrs Hudson." He quickly tuned out the noise of the woman's fretting while John did his best to placate the poor woman.

"It'll be alright Mrs Hudson." John assured before dragging his best friend up the stairs. Fortunately, John still had a spare key to the place so he wouldn't have to wrestle with Sherlock more than he had to. "Now get yourself cleaned up and I'll see if I can salvage anything edible here." He ordered after frogmarching the consulting detective towards the bathroom. When satisfied with hearing the shower running, John picked his way through the main living room of scattered documents and a pile of letters, many of which were stuffed into a bin unread. The entire wall was completely pinned up with papers, photos and dates written next to them. Naturally, finding the cupboards empty and fully aware that there were probably bits of a rotting corpse in the fridge, John opted to quickly pop down to Speedy's and bring up something instead.

There had been a queue at café Speedy's and it was a fairly long wait but John had expected Sherlock to be taking his time with his grooming. John still remembered the cold showers he had to endure because the man had used up all the hot water when he still lived at 221B. John had expected to see the bathroom door shut with steam wafting from the edges but he had returned to find Sherlock lying still on the couch with his clothes back on and obviously in his mind palace. Although clean shaven once more, his hair was still damp and his long fingers collected under his chin. John sighed and sat down to wait for his friend to come out of it while taking a moment to contemplate what had been happening since Sherlock had all but stopped interacting with him. He figured that Sherlock would be on the high profile ritual murder case and had expected a call the second the news spread. In the end though, it had been Mycroft who ended up informing him of Sherlock's whereabouts and allowed John to catch up to him.

_It's not one of 'those' days but he's latest actions are uncharacteristic of late. Do us a favour and find out what it is._ The bureaucrat had said to him when he came to pick up John from the clinic. Now how is John going to approach it was the question. Dredging up his medical knowledge, he looked at Sherlock laying so still. He was clearly was not using drugs from John's assessment on the eyes and his general state. To be fair he wasn't sure what state this was. Through the years John had seen Sherlock in all sorts of moods, even had a glimpse of the emptiness from the 'danger' nights Mycroft warned him about. This was something that was completely new to him though. He'd often seen Sherlock in a particular phase all excited and dynamic with his cases, as he worked on them with gusto. Although his deductions haven't been affected, in fact he was still spot on in every single case he had been on and the sheer volume that Sherlock had solved seemed overwhelming to John. Yet there was still something missing, the spark of enjoyment that Sherlock felt for cases that interested him. The fact he took up solving so many cases even the ones he had previously seen as mundane in a perfunctory manner.

Sherlock just appeared have lost interest. In everything, even the Work. When John had first met the man, he had expressed that he considered himself married to it and poured every ounce of focus and concentration into it with enthusiasm and vigour. Now he appeared to wonder in a dreamlike state and almost looking confused as if seeing the world for the first time. Although the state of being never affected his deductions one bit, in fact he was quicker and sharper than ever before.

"I'm fine, " Sherlock said opening his eyes having returned from his mind palace.

"Right, because that's why you've stopped all contact with practically everyone for two months. What's actually going on?"

"It's not the worst thing I've done." John huffed and resisted rolling his eyes.

"Well yes, faking your own death and not bothering to tell me for two years was the worst thing you've ever done but we've already been over that. Now, what's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Yes, what more do you want? I just finished a case, it was boring now waiting for the next one."

"And yet you act like you're in the middle of one right now." John cast his eyes on the wall. The photos which he initially assumed was to do with the ritual killings however, the focus of it all was on the strange looking circles. A couple he had recognised from the scenes of the crime but there were many more. Too many to count. "What else were you looking at? These strange circles that keep turning up?"

"Nothing. They don't mean anything..."

"Then why are you so obsessed with them then? Come on. Who's the client?"

"There is no client!" Sherlock snapped at the army doctor. "Those circles don't mean anything. They are nothing, not unless I get the right data on them and it isn't there." Sherlock angry rant trailed off revealing exhaustion and confusion. His eyes drooping as he struggled to concentrate. Now John was scared, as he had never seen Sherlock look so lost before passing out on the couch. "Not enough… data…" A few minutes passed and it looked like the detective had succumbed to exhaustion, the transport finally winning out against his mind after possibly days where Sherlock went without sleep.

"Christ, Sherlock." John whispered, searching for a blanket to cover the man and he worried about his sanity. What was it about these circles? John thought as he flicked through the pictures and the obscured symbols. Like rocky crop circles except without the explanation of how and why they were there or any sign of who put them there. John sifted through the dates, taking out a pen and idly tapping it on a nearby notepad. After a few moments, the doctor drew a blank on what it was Sherlock was noticing that had his rapt attention when the detective sprang up with a shout.

"Letter!"

"What?" Sherlock shot up like he had just be injected with a dose of adrenaline and pushed around the seemingly endless pile of envelopes before finally unearthing one from the pile and shoved in John's direction.

"Not everyone has realised that you've moved out ages ago." John blinked a few times feeling like he suffered whiplash but he was almost a relief that Sherlock seemed to revert back to himself after that small moment of vulnerability. "Not the usual mail that comes by in a post. It's from a well-travelled elderly gentleman with a missing limb."

"How could you know that?" John chuckled in amusement at Sherlock's brilliance. He tried to take in as much detail from the look of the unopened envelope. High quality paper with several stamps that had obviously travelled through several countries to get to England with a red wax seal imprinted with a crest that looked oddly familiar. It was crown with wings hovered above a sword with a snake wrapped around it. The writing of the address was cursive with black ink likely from a fountain pen. Sherlock talked over the doctor's shoulder as he quickly fired out his deduction.

"The way the 'T's are crossed from right to left implicating use of the left hand but the upward slant of the angle doesn't coincide with a natural left hander. Why write with your non dominant hand unless you have to? So amputee. The paper is from Japan, the ink from India and the wax was produced in Scotland. The colour and the cracked imprint shows the wax is aged likely only used for rare circumstances by an old man who kept his wax for sentimental reasons."

The army doctor blinked several times in amazement before he broke the wax seal to look at the contents. There was a single piece of paper with the same cursive writing and on equally nice paper. The letter was relatively short but it got across the message and it made John do a double take at the contents. To say at very least it was a very odd letter even as he read it out loud to his friend.

_Dear John_

_I hope this letter finds you well and safely by the time I arrive in London. I expect you don't know who I am, which is understandable since your mother will not have told you about me. However, let's not dwell on lengthy introductions in a letter as I'd hate myself for not trying to contact you and meet you in person. It'll please me if you will be willing to visit me anytime during the week from the 10__th. __Meet me at the Milestone Hotel in Kensington. I'll explain to you then of everything you want to know. _

_Your sincerely _

_Your honourable grandfather._

_Edward Elric. _


End file.
